


took the words out of my mouth

by rosebarsoap



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 20:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19875607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebarsoap/pseuds/rosebarsoap
Summary: sentence prompts from tumblr: the arcana edition!





	1. they make me ache in ways i never felt possible

After Julian walked you home, you watched him disappear down a side street as you went back into the shop. Conversation with Asra felt stilted, somewhat awkward at first, but the tension ebbed from your shoulders as he (and Faust) consoled you. But Asra warned you amidst the comfort; something about Julian— Ilya, Asra called him— not exactly being an honest man. Someone you shouldn’t follow, no matter what your intuition tells you.

But you’ve never been one to heed good advice.

With your traveling cloak worn high to conceal your face, you follow the path he took, sensing his presence get closer like you’re the moth to his redheaded flame, and you stop in front of a small, sunken-in building. The Rowdy Raven.

Another patron stumbles out as you sneak in, keeping your hood up as you weave between tables, searching for a familiar face, and you (unfortunately) find one— slumped over a back booth table, stein half-full in his hand. Julian, surrounded by friends in the form of empty glasses. Julian, his head resting in the crook of his elbow, reeking of drink. He looks so desperately sad, even in his alcohol-added haze, that you can’t help but reach out and touch his shoulder.

“Whassat? Who’s—?”

Behind his messy hair, Julian looks up at you, squinting his pale eye against the warm light of the tavern. He blinks, furrows his brow in befuddlement, and takes a clumsy mouthful of his drink.

“You look just like… No, it’s nothing. They don’t deserve to see me at this place.”

What's in that drink of his?

You slide into the booth on the bench across, leaning against the table on your elbows. Julian watches you, turning onto his chin to face you properly.

“What do you want? Who’re you?”  
You tell him you’re a friend. A concerned party sent you to find him when he left them at their doorstep with such a blue shadow on his countenance. Pushing some of the steins to the side, you mirror his pose on the table, folding your arms and propping your head up on them. Julian sighs, so forlorn it makes your heart hurt.

“Why are they worried about me? I told them… it wouldn’t work. There’s no future for them that deserves me in it.”

You’re about to protest again, but close your mouth. He doesn’t know it’s you; perhaps you can shake some sense into him from an apparent uninvolved perspective. You ask why he’s so certain that this person shouldn’t be with him anymore, and Julian smiles ruefully.

“Somehow I get yet another attractive stranger invested in the woes of my life. Well…”

He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking deeply on his next words.

“I… There’s a lot of things about me that I don’t know about. I’m sure you know who I am: “the dastardly doctor of death” or whatever it is the wanted signs used to shout. But I don’t know if any of it’s true.”

You press on, wondering aloud why he can’t remember, but Julian just shrugs, the motion lost against the table.

“I have no clue. I’m… missing things. But what if the bad things people think… what if they’re true? I know I’m bad news already, but… I can’t load that burden onto their shoulders too.”

He said nearly the same thing to you at the docks, earlier that night. The drink probably made him believe it much more, swallowing the doubt as easily as the alcohol. You want to comfort him, somehow. A gentle touch to his jaw, tucking hair out of his eyes. But as a listening stranger, you can only ask questions.

You ask why this person is so special, why they’re exempt from his onerous burdens. What if they want to help? Julian’s face reads surprised for a beat, but it quickly shifts to his previous melancholy. He drinks.

“They’re… they’re different. Somehow they see… _something_ in me. They’re like a light…”

He stares up at the lantern between you both, as if his “special one” were to materialize from within the shade.

“… and I can’t help but follow them. If I were a stronger man, I’d know I could just say— say goodbye, leave, start new trouble. Rinse and repeat.”

Julian looks to you, and the rest of the tavern goes out of focus.

_“They make me ache in ways I never felt possible.”_

You say his name, a whisper so quiet you’re surprised he hears it. Unable to stop yourself, you take his hand, threading your fingers together— he doesn’t pull away. His eye traces your features, soft and careful, committing you to memory. You smile at him, and his bleary gaze sobers up instantly. He murmurs your name like it’s the only word he knows how to speak.

“What are you _doing_ here? I didn’t want you to see me like th—”

His sentence peters out when you press your finger to his lips, shifting your hand to cup his cheek. It’s alright, you tell him. Everything’s okay. Julian tries to protest, but you give him a look that easily says “shut up or I’ll slap you” and he doesn’t say anything more. He chuckles, turning into your palm and pressing a kiss to the skin.

“There’s no hiding from you anymore, is there?”


	2. promise me you'll stay

It’s not like you to get lost in the forest. Or maybe it is, on a particularly bad day. But regardless of that, right now, you’re very, _very_ lost.

You had grand plans to find those orange berries Asra talked about to ask him to teach you how to cook them. Last time you were around here you saw them, but the forest is ever-changing, always growing, and when you turn around yet another tall tree, you’re certain you’ve seen it before. Hm. You’re halfway through wondering how far you got into the forest when an ear-splitting shriek shakes you from the thought.

Without anything better to do, you run. Leaping over capsized trunks and flowers comes as second nature— it’s not your first try dashing through the trees— but you skid to a halt in the middle of a clearing, tall and spindly foliage blocking your way out. And, wherever it went… your way in.

The shriek echoes, louder, shriller, and you turn in a circle to try and find the source. You call magic to your fingertips and find comfort in the hum, ready to strike, but nothing comes. Nothing tangible, anyway.

_Hmm… What’s this?_

The voice feels close. Hair on the back of your neck stands up straight. Hot air blows against your shoulder. When you turn to face the speaker, there’s no one there.

_A lamb… that walked directly into the den of wolves. Ready for the slaughter._

You recognize this voice. The palace… Those dogs lead you upstairs to this voice. Hazy, half-forgotten, but it comes back in full force now. You swallow thickly, steadying your breathing.

_You recognize me, don’t you? As if you could forget me._

A phantom finger drags along your jaw, tilting your head this way and that. You ask what they want, itching to break from their touch (?), but the voice merely laughs.

_What I want? Unfortunately… I can’t have it. But soon, I'm going to_ take _it._

Incorporeal fingers fist in your hair, pulling your head back. You yelp in pain, but manage to keep your eyes open to get a glimpse your attacker— white, tall, red eyes, black… horns?

Something pushes through the trees, aiming straight for your unwanted company. The voice snarls— a blast of heat and energy knocks you backwards and onto the ground. A large rock breaks your fall and you thud against it hip first, shouting out on impact before you land flat on your back.

“Get out of here.”

A new voice rumbles like thunder, and their shadow looms over you. You recognize it, you _know_ you do— myrrh. Of course.

Muriel.

_Wh— Scourge, long time no see! I was just getting acquainted with your lovely… friend._

The way the first voice drags out “friend” makes Muriel bristle. He stands in front of you, fists curled at his sides, energy held tight like a taut bowstring.

“That’s not my name. Go away.”

You try and reach up to him, whisper his name, and he softens for a second before the voice yells in anger. The presence coalesces and you see them, now— a monstrous goat, standing on hind legs, one long arm missing its partner.

_You can’t run forever!_

The shade runs (as far as they can _run,_ so to speak) to the edge of the clearing, making to leave… but they turn tail and run towards Muriel. Who remains still as a statue, even with the oncoming attacker.

You struggle to your feet and step in front of him, magic like light on your fingertips as you send a blast directly into the ghost’s chest, sending them careening backwards to hit a tree, leaves falling from the canopy. Muriel’s gasp comes quiet when you take his hand and pull him the way you came— thankfully _there_ again after you left your bruising mark on the ghost. Which isn’t really a ghost, if it took fall damage, but okay.

Muriel runs with you until he finds something in the expanse of green that he recognizes, then he pulls you down a side path, one of Asra’s seven-sided stars dangling above your heads. You recognize the warped tree in front of you just before Muriel opens the door to his home and pushes you inside, coming in after you and slamming the door shut.

Inanna, curled in front of the fireplace, lifts her head when you stumble in, and the sudden fatigue makes you fall to your knees on the floor of the hut. She stands and quickly serves as your crutch while you catch your breath. Muriel hovers nearby, uncertain, until you blindly reach for the table to prop yourself up. He steps forward, carefully (nervously) sliding your hand into his, as he helps you back to your feet. You land against him, free hand splayed across his chest, and he tenses beneath your touch— but doesn’t pull away. You thank him and go to detangle, but his grip tightens on your hand; you look up to find him staring down at you, lips pressed together.

“Are you alright?”

You blink owlishly at him for a moment before nodding, offering a small, grateful smile. You’re fine, left with just a bruised hip thanks to him finding you in time. Expecting him to step away and take his personal space back, you ask if he’s okay. He did a lot of running in your escape.

(You’re not _that_ worried for him. You feel the defined muscle under your fingertips and know your concern is wholly unneeded.)

He nods. But he still holds onto your hand, doesn’t back away from you. From the corner of your eye, you see his other hand hovering over you, wanting to but not quite finding the courage to; you nod, and he _very slowly_ places it on your waist. He’s scarlet-cheeked and won’t meet your eye.

Muriel’s a man of few words. Rather than telling him it’s alright for him to touch you, you show him.

You do it slowly, so he can see (and feel) everything you do in case it startles him; your hand relocates to his side, just where the fur pelt meets bare skin, and you rest your head on his chest, his heartbeat fluttering loud under your ear. For a split second, you’re afraid he’ll finally push you away, scared and unfamiliar with the closeness… but he lets out a long, years-held sigh, soft against the top of your head. He dares to curl his arm around you and you shuffle a step forward, your bodies nearly flush together. Something murmured into your hair threatens to get lost on its way down to your ears, but you hear it rumble in his chest, something in yours skipping a beat.

_“Promise me.”_

You meet his eye. He’s tender when he looks at you; unfamiliar, but very much welcomed.

_“Promise me you’ll stay.”_

You relax against him and nod, pressing your cheek to his chest and squeezing his hand.

You’re not going anywhere.


	3. don't you understand how much i care about you?

Portia’s mad at you. You’d love to say you know why, but you have no clue.

In your defense, it was Mercedes’s fault. Or Melchior’s? You still can’t tell the dogs apart. Regardless, one of them bolted towards you in the palace gardens, tangled around your ankles, and you fell backwards into a bush. An unfortunately prickly white rose bush, which the gardeners hadn’t de-thorned in… a while.

Ludovico found you first, accessorizing from head to toe in brambles and petals, and led you up to the palace infirmary. The nurse was asking what happened and where the thorns stuck in the worst, when Portia barreled through the door like a fire-haired hurricane. Pepi followed hot on her heels, leaping up to you and sniffing at your hand.

“What happened?! Are you alright?” She ran to you and hovered over your injuries as you protested that you’re _fine,_ it’s just a few scratches and your pride’s hurt more than anything. It’s a good job you’re not allergic to roses. Or maybe you are, this’ll be a fun time to find out.

“How did you _fall into_ a bush? Did you decide “oh, yeah, great idea, just gonna take a nap in here specifically” or did you have an even _worse_ idea?”

Portia insists that she take care of you instead and drags you out of the infirmary before the nurse so much as gives you a bandage. She tugs you to your guest room, pulls out the armchair (it makes you flounder when you remember how _strong_ she is), and pushes you down into it. Pepi settles on the bed and starts grooming one of her long legs.

“I can’t _believe_ you fell into a _bush_ and I was too busy _serving the courtiers tea_ to know until now,” Portia mutters (to you or herself? the world may never know) as she rapidly plucks out the thorns stuck to your arms. You wince because _ow_ but she doesn’t even notice, too busy fawning over your very tiny wounds to realize she was starting to hurt.

“I should ask milady to get that bush relocated—”

Portia.

“Or thrown out entirely! It’s done nothing but harm—”

_Portia._

“And _another_ thing—!”

_Pasha!_

She stops and stares you dead in the eye, a sheepish blush blooming across her cheeks. Portia pauses, a stick threaded into your clothes between her forefinger and thumb in the process of getting taken out. You ask if she’s alright and she laughs, but it’s strained, high-pitched.

“Of course I’m alright! Not all of us fell into bushes and scraped ourselves down to sandpaper, you know!”

You take the twig from her and pull it from your shirt yourself, brushing against her fingers for just a second. She swallows. Is she _sure_ she’s okay?

“I, um… Oh, this is ridiculous. Here I am trying to fix you up, and you could probably heal yourself instead, couldn’t you?” Portia sighs.

You appreciate her efforts, you tell her, but she didn’t have to take time out of her day to come take care of you. After all, she probably has far more pressing things to deal with than a few sticks and thorns tangled in your hair. Portia adamantly disagrees, her hair bobbing around her shoulders when she shakes her head.

“No, nothing is more important than— than our guest being in tip-top shape! I had to make sure you’re alright!”

You’re _fine,_ you insist, it’s just a few thorns and she should worry about the important stuff, but Portia lets out an impatient sigh.

_“You don’t get it, do you? How can you be so blind! Don’t you understand how much I care about you?”_

Silence becomes the loudest sound in the room. Portia claps a hand over her mouth, bright blue eyes wide as they bear into yours, awaiting a response.

She cares about you. You knew Portia as your friend, the giggly handmaiden who gave you a grand tour of the palace, the sneaky detective who pulled you into a closet to hide from guards you both knew wouldn’t tattle. Anything further than friends you concluded impossible. Brought in by the Countess to investigate the count’s murder— and his murderer, who, inconveniently, is Portia’s elder brother. The situation seemed too tangled for any thoughts of… courting her.

You ask her if she means it, your voice quiet and small.

“Wh— of course I do. I know you’re supposed to find Il— Julian, and… But you’re…”

Portia dares to step forward, plucking a white petal from behind your ear.

“You’re _you._ You’re smart and brave and funny, and super cute, and a _magician._ And, er… I like magicians.”

Who specifically? you wonder, arching a mischievous brow. Portia bursts into giggles, and her smile lights up the room.

 _“You_ specifically.”


	4. of course i'm not going anywhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> featuring three different prompts:
> 
> “It’s weird. I never thought I could feel like this, but you showed up. Now, it’s like I don’t wanna go on knowing I might lose the feeling.”
> 
> “You’ve got a fever. Of course I’m not going anywhere.”
> 
> [Holds the other’s hand when they think the other won’t notice]

You’d _love_ to lie and say you’re _not_ sick, but Julian decides you’ve done far too much bluffing already.

It started with the coughing. Just little ones, hacked into your sleeve, but soon they got far, far worse. You tried to say something and your breath caught in your throat, escaping in wheezes and thumps to your chest. Must be some sort of bug going around. Your friends fetched you endless glasses of water, but nothing slaked your throat’s dryness for long.

Then came sneezing. Not as frequent as the coughs, but still annoyingly frequent. You sniffled your way around the Palace, and one of the guards even gave you his handkerchief out of pity. Julian helped you clear your sinuses with some fancy teapot thing, but even that didn’t keep them clean.

Unfortunately, your next symptom was light-headedness. You’re meant to be _working_ and suddenly you wake up on the floor, Julian leaning over your head in concern. Far too quickly, you sit up and try to scramble to your feet, but Julian pushes you back down on the floor, brows knitted together.

“You’re ill. I should’ve seen it sooner— nobody sneezes six times in a row without something going on.”

He tries to joke, but the concern lies heavy behind his words. Instead of helping you to your feet, Julian scoops you bodily into his arms and _carries_ you to one of the more plush beds in the Palace’s infirmary. He drapes you over the bed and carefully pulls the covers over you— you didn’t notice you’re shivering until the blankets soothe your shakes.

“Now let’s see… I’m not a doctor for nothing, after all.” He pulls off one glove with his teeth and puts his hand on your forehead, signature smirk falling when he feels for your temperature.

“Well, humans aren’t meant to be this hot. You might be the exception right now.”

Does he mean foreheads? The way he worded it didn’t _sound_ like foreheads. The surprise clear on your face makes him falter, drawing his hand back wicked fast.

“As in _temperatures._ Yes. Fever. That’s what you have, right now.”

You sigh, slapping the back of your hand to your forehead. How _dare_ fate degrade you to a life of bedridden illness at this very moment? Julian laughs, shaking his head fondly.

“You’re well enough to joke, at least.”

Conversation flows easy between you, and as the hour ticks by, you begin to feel worse. Your arms feel like lead when you try to pick them up, and when Julian makes you laugh it comes out hoarse and pathetic. Blinking blearily, you worry your bottom lip between your teeth, suddenly very, very tired.

“Hm… Looks like a certain someone needs rest. Things will be better in the morning, hm?”

Julian doesn’t even move to stand before you reach to snatch his hand, holding to him like an anchor. He whips around to face you and his shoulders slump when he sees what must be the raw hurt on your features.

You ask him to stay. Please.

A shuddery breath, a squeeze to your hand. Julian smiles, affectionate and caring.

_“You’ve got a fever. Of course I’m not going anywhere.”_

Julian shucks off his overcoat and waistcoat, settling into the chair for the night. You turn onto your side and let go of his hand, even if yours feels cold without his in it. He stretches his fingers and curls them into a fist, staring down at his hand for a long moment. By the time it occurs to him to speak again, you’ve already fallen asleep.

“You ask me to keep you company and fall asleep the second your head hits the pillow.”

If you were awake, you’d know he means no ill-will. If you were awake, you’d feel his hand gently take yours again, weaving your fingers together.

“Of all of my patients, you’re the only one to get this kind of attention from their doctor.” He rubs a thumb over your knuckles. “It’s only fitting that it’s you, I suppose.”

He can actually _talk_ to you when you’re asleep, which is both concerning and relieving. No worries about stammering or getting too bashful. Reaching out his free hand, he traces careful fingertips along your jawline, laughing to himself.

 _“It’s weird,”_ he murmurs, studying your features like a fine artwork. _“I never thought I could feel like this, but you showed up. Now, it’s like I don’t want to go on, knowing I might lose the feeling.”_

Julian sighs, his gentle touch stopping at the shell of your ear. He stands to head to the door, but hesitates; turning back to you, he leans down and softly kisses your forehead.

“Though in times like these… I can’t afford to lose you.”

He swings open the doors of the infirmary and walks straight down to the library, to his office. With the cure on the tip of his tongue, he knows he’ll fix this mess soon.

He’s adamant to deny the telltale red in your tired eyes.


	5. do you have any idea how beautiful you are?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> also featuring: 
> 
> holds the other's hand when they don't think the other will notice
> 
> (rose is my fan apprentice!)

“Rose?”

I didn’t hear him come back in— oops.

I got the broom out to clear up the dust and dirt left from a recent patron’s boots after I finished their reading, but they waltzed out the door with a spring in their step and a whistle between their teeth. I recognized the song… from _somewhere._ I wasn’t sure where. But I continued their hum as they shut the door, filling in the missing parts of the song with notes of my own. It filled me with some sort of lightness; I swept the dust into the corner near the back door, but the broom became my dance partner along the way as I twirled across the floor with it, skirts flaring out around my legs. I felt a little silly, dancing around the shop like a child, but the song struck me with such a familiar blow that I couldn’t _not_ spin a few times. Obviously.

It’s when I finish a one-footed twirl that I see Asra leaning on the doorframe, watching me, a mischievous grin spreading on his face. I stop with an abrupt skid on the wooden floor, the broom in my hand becoming my makeshift Whacking Stick.

“Having fun?” Asra’s smirk turns playful as he steps up to meet me in the middle of the room. His hand lands over mine on the broom so I let him take it from me, and he leans it against the wall.

“I, erm— I wanted to get one of the more resilient dust bunnies, you see— I span around to make it dizzy,” I try, but Asra’s obviously not buying it. He chuckles, his gaze following my hand as I mess with my hair, gaze fixed on the floor.

“You caught me. I had a song stuck in my head… Figured I’d try and dance it out.”

“No shame in that.” He reaches to take both my hands, squeezing them lightly. I smile sheepishly, embarrassed at being caught, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I meet his eye, surprised to see them dart away, looking somewhere over my shoulder instead. There’s a sudden wave of nervousness that hits me, coming from him; I feel it in my hands, held tight in his.

“If you need a dance partner… All you had to do was ask.”

The shop’s dim light can’t quite hide the flush that creeps over his cheeks and neck. He finally looks at me, pressing his lips together in wait of my answer. Rather than saying anything, I plant his hand on my waist, sliding mine up to rest on his upper arm.

“You’ll have to lead. I’ve… Not danced with someone before.”

My confession falls on surprised ears; Asra’s face shifts from disbelief to an almost hurt expression. “You haven’t?”

“Not that I can remember…” With the gap in my memory, it’s true that I don’t know if I _have_ broken into a tango at some point. “Until now, anyway.”

We both blush pink and laugh nervously, but the remainder of the tension disappears when Asra’s hesitant hand lands fully on my waist, two fingers warm against my skin. He smiles, encouraging, before he steps forward, nodding when I step backward in return, turning around the shop in short steps. I know his next step like we’ve danced a million times, managing not to fumble from the sense of familiarity. He suddenly twirls me out around his arm, tugs back in, and before I have a chance to look at him in shock he decides to let go of me and lifts my arm above my head. Somehow I know to spin around again, laughing when my hair brushes against his face, and he pulls me back to him— significantly closer than we were before. We’re almost nose-to-nose, his chest pressed against mine, when I feel his hand slide up my back to the nape of my neck.

He never looks away, staring deep into my eyes before he gently pushes my head forward so my chin rests on his shoulder. Asra sighs in content, wrapping his arm around me, his hand splayed over the small of my back. His hair tickles my nose, so I tuck my face into the crook of his neck, closing my eyes.

I find focusing on his energy comes quickly with him being this close. It’s warm, thrumming, nervous and excited and… Something else I can’t quite place. We sway back and forth, not so much dancing as embracing at this point. Moving in place as we commit the lines of the other’s form to memory. Asra’s hand fists in my shirt, making me lift my head to ask if he’s alright… to find his eyes glossy, searching mine, and the feeling I couldn’t figure out before hits me in full force. Longing.

“Asra—”

I’m cut off before I properly speak by him surging forward and kissing me. His fingers tangle in my hair, and I find myself reaching up to cup his face in my hands, reciprocating in earnest. There’s an edge of desperation to his sudden advance, pulling from my mouth to leave a trail of kisses from my jaw and down my neck, both hands now on my waist to guide me backwards. We only pull apart when my back hits the wall with a _thunk,_ and I lift my head to watch him as he catches his breath.

His lips are reddened and parted, his chest heaving as he comes to his senses. Pupils blown out, hands shaking, one of his legs between both of mine in mid-step. Asra flushes scarlet when he realizes, but the second he looks at me, the tension dissolves from his shoulders.

If I squint, I can see the reflection in the mirror on top of the shelf; my back flat against the wall, hair in my eyes, and Asra in front of me, steading himself against the wall with both hands. We’re around the same height, but somehow he feels much bigger when I’m cornered like this. It’s not such a bad feeling.

“Well, it’s good to see you too.” I smile at him, teasing in tone, before pulling him closer by the hips. He rests his forehead against mine; I can hear his hard swallow before he speaks.

_“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”_

His hand drags down the wall before reaching to tuck a loose curl of hair behind my ear, then gently cups my cheek, like he’s scared of breaking me. I want to _say_ something, but my words push weakly against the lump in my throat.

“In everything you do. Your laugh, your silly jokes, your… your eyes, when you look at me. I could get lost in them, sometimes.”

I blink at him, unable to tear my gaze from his. He’s complimented me before… but not like this. Not with his touch so delicate on my jaw, his chest so close I can feel his heart thud in tandem with mine.

Never like this.

“Asra, I… um. ‘Thank you’ doesn’t feel like enough.” My whisper makes his attention fall to my lips as I speak. He brushes his thumb against my lower lip, hand trembling.

“If I told you everything I love about you, you’d be saying ‘thank you’ far too much.”

My gasp gets swallowed by his mouth when he leans in again, hand sliding to the nape of my neck and fingers tangling in my hair. He’s still shaking; built-up tension released in relieved abundance when I return his kiss. One of his hands still sticks to the wall next to my head, a flat, unfeeling anchor to reality as we lose ourselves in each other. I hear it sliding down, losing grip. Weaving around his arm, I reach out and put my hand underneath his, prying it off the wall to weave my fingers between his while he’s occupied with, well. Y’know.

If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. Asra doesn’t seem to notice my hand holding his for a moment, but once he feels the warmth of my palm rather than the cold of the wall he curls around my hand like he has nothing else to hold onto. I smile against his lips and use my other arm to wrap around his waist, pulling him flush against me.

He breaks off first, breathing heavily as he hides his face in my shoulder. I feel him gently press his lips to the side of my neck, and I drag my hand up and down his back.

“You know, I’m not sure this is really _dancing.”_

He snorts, poking my waist with tickling fingers to make me laugh before bringing me back into a hug. Asra pulls his head back and kisses both cheeks, his teasing smirk easy to return.

“You’d be right in assuming that.”


End file.
